Peruvian Pursuits

Providence Days  Relieved to have arrived, limbs and dignity intact, after a midnight taxi drive through the back streets of Bogota; streets solely decorated by the battered looking working ladies, bleached graffiti, windswept newspaper pages and busy trolley-pushing beggars. Two short flips later over true aquamarine, I’ve touched down on an airstrip the length of some people’s driveways. The burnt out carcass of a small plane welcoming me to Providence Island is an unnerving touch.  A 10 minute walk along a paved causeway, sidestepping salmon-blue crabs, I’ve found my own private sandpit. About 300m of silky sand strewn with dried algae, palm leaves and carpets of orange fruit. On the beach, in the water, on the paths, it looks like a tropical salad. Although the fish nibble and peck at the water-logged delicacies, the grisly iguanas seem indifferent and no humans fill plastic shopping bags. Where I come from, hoards would be shoveling the fruit into bags to be sold, frozen and smoothied-that’s progress! Perhaps they are gut-wrenchingly poisonous? But later Francisca assures they are yummy wild mangoes. I loathe mangoes though my mind was plotting a new export business, irritated that these relatively disadvantaged islanders were missing out on a ‘goldmine’–ripe for the plucking! Nine days alone on a lazy, mango-littered island in the Caribbean may sound like a dream come true but after about 6 hours I was sitting frustrated in a steamy Internet café changing my Facebook status to “Bored of my own personality.”     Days of dreaming, fish gazing, wandering the trails and deciphering the sing-song language pass by in a sweaty, salty blissful haze. Life drifts. I walk slower, smile at nothing in particular. The locals begin to nod as I wander by. I try a few hand-sized mangoes, juicy perfect.  More for me as I read another page, dry off after counting sea stars. I never want to leave a place where free fruit goes unpicked, waiting. Just eat the wild mango, and chill.